There’s been an accident.
It happened Tuesday evening on the back porch where we were grilling our dinner. Waylon was crawling around at Austin’s feet and in a moment of panic (the grill was on fire), Austin looked away at the exact moment Waylon stood up beside the grill and laid his hands on the side of it.
Because he’s a baby, he didn’t let go right away, resulting in 2nd degree burns on the palm and fingertips of his right hand and fingertips of his left hand.
He cried for two hours straight, with only a few pauses for air. It was not a normal cry, it was one of pain and fear and confusion. My heart broke into a million pieces. I held him, I sang to him, I tried to help him with aloe and cool water. Mostly I stomped around the house and yelled at Austin for being negligent. It was not my finest moment.
After a half hour of hysteria, Austin announced that he had to leave for a school-related patient project. You can imagine my reaction. First I shouted something along the lines of ARE YOU KIDDING ME? And then I threatened to take Waylon to the ER. When he finally left, I collapsed with (still screaming) Waylon on the couch and we both cried.
Five minutes later my sister showed up with cooling pads. When I handed the baby over to her, he immediately calmed down, thankful to be with someone more responsible.
I was still concerned about his burnt flesh, so I called a good friend who is in medical school and then our doctor who reassured me I was doing the right things.
Once the Advil kicked in and my sister and I got his hand wrapped, Waylon turned into Baby Of The Year. He smiled, he cooed, he laughed at our jokes. You know that feeling the first day back after something terrible like the flu? It was like that. He grinned from ear to ear. He had survived!
When Austin got home a few hours later, he was surprised to find Waylon and I on the couch, stress eating puffers and watching Arrested Development reruns. I had put on a Barney Sing Along I found on Netflix as a “I’m sorry you burned your hand treat,” but he was uninterested. Of course this made me feel very superior.
Over the past two days I’ve been fielding major mom guilt over my wounded soldier’s sad, bandaged hands; coddling him, holding him, reading A Day At The Farm 15 times in a row.
I know this is just the first of many injuries (who are we kidding?), but still.
The truth is, I wanted to write a well thought out, funny post about this whole experience, but I’m still too sad. It’s not really that funny and even though he’s perfectly fine and even a bit excited about something new to chew on around his fingers, I don’t want to relive it any more than I have to.